Tales of December
by KnightFury
Summary: 2015's entries for Hades Lord of the Dead's December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness.
1. College

_**Prompt for the 1st of December from Domina Temporis - College**_

* * *

I make it a rule not to tell Watson too much about my younger days. My childhood at home was one spent in misery for many reasons - the main one being that I was a difficult child, with too much energy, and as a result I spent many hours chained to my bed by way of punishment. I was also given many a beating, in the hope that I might some day learn that young men should be seen and not heard until they come of age.

College was moderately better. At least there I had a single good friend in Victor Trevor and one or two acquaintances that were not all bad. Never the less, Christmas at college tended to be dull - a time that I spent in a combination of utter boredom and dread at the thought of going home again in the approaching days of holiday.

While my fellow students enjoyed themselves as boys will in the Winter months - tobogganing, ice skating and snowball fighting - I would sit up in my room and watch. I have never much enjoyed the cold weather and being pelted with snowballs was never my idea of fun. However, I did envy those that were noisily enjoying themselves outside without a care.

I do recall Victor teaching me to skate, very early one morning, when there was no fear of interruption. He had become concerned that I was becoming far too miserable and felt that I should have some enjoyment. I had much to thank him for.

The thing that I liked the most about college, however, was going to chapel. Music is a balm for the soul and the sound of singing reverberating from off the glass, wood and stone while the candles fill the space with their warm glow is soothing indeed.

Never the less, whenever Watson asks me about past Christmases, I shall always assure him that I never had much time for celebrations or holidays. Some things are best left forgotten, I am inclined to believe. Besides, the Christmas holidays that my Boswell has forced upon me are by far the best that I have ever endured.


	2. Visitors for Dinner

_**Prompt for the 2nd of December from Domina Temporis - Someone has an important announcement to make**_

I had been in a state of depression for some weeks and I know that my dear wife was becoming increasingly troubled by the change in me. While I felt terribly guilty for being so miserable at a time of year when one is supposed to be jolly and thankful, and to celebrate with one's family, my heart remained heavy after the demise of my intimate friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, at the Reichenbach Falls.

For how long I had remained in that state, I cannot honestly say, for it had been a gradual process and not an immediate reaction. I should like to think that Mary noticed my decline into a rather Holmes-like black mood and saw fit to stop it in its tracks before it had an opportunity to go on for too long, but that could be very far from the truth indeed. I can tell just how my darling wife succeeded in bringing my black fit to an end, however, for that I do remember only too well.

I had spent the morning of Christmas Eve in my study, writing a story from my journals in an effort to return Holmes to me, if just for a short while. It was an unhealthy practice, but it seemed to make me feel better, while the work lasted, and I believe Mary was just relieved to hear me laugh from time to time, as I came to something that amused me.

"John," she called through the door of my study, at three o'clock that afternoon. "I should like for you to stop writing, now. We are to have guests arriving, soon after four o'clock; could you dress for company and join me in the drawing room?"

My dear wife had not expressed any interest in giving a party, that Christmas, and I was somewhat intrigued, albeit also just a little put out. I did have a mind to ask her why she had said nothing before, but, for the sake of the day, I obeyed her wishes without bad humour.

The first of the guests to arrive was Tobias Gregson. He came bearing a bottle of port.

"Merry Christmas, Doctor Watson, Mrs. Watson," said he, as he stepped inside the drawing room. "I'm not too early, am I?"

Lestrade arrived next, with a basket of fruit. He remarked upon how beautiful the Christmas decorations were and what a fine job my wife had done.

Slowly, the house filled with friends that I had made through my acquaintance with my absent friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Some of the policemen sat awkwardly, while others chatted away.

The Yarders stayed for dinner - which made it much merrier than it would otherwise have been. By this time, everyone was talking cheerfully and the awkwardness in the company was completely gone.

Just before the pudding was due to be brought in, Lestrade stood up.

"We've got an announcement to make," said he, with an awkward sweep about him at his colleagues. "Doctor Watson, on behalf all of those who work at the Yard, I want you to know that you will always find friends in the official police force. If there's ever anything that you need..."

"If you ever become bored and miss working in association with Scotland Yard, you can always take the position of police surgeon," Gregson interrupted, somewhat impatiently.

Lestrade turned to glare at him with his hands on his hips. "I was just coming to that."

"Well, you were taking your sweet time about it, as usual."

"Please, gentlemen, not on Christmas Eve," my dear Mary implored them. "Inspector Lestrade, please continue."

The little ferret-faced man gave Gregson a triumphantly haughty expression before continuing. "If you ever wish to work with us again, there will always be room for you at Scotland Yard, Doctor. And if you ever need friendship..." he was silent for a moment and then he cleared his throat. "The truth is, we miss Mr. Holmes as well."

I thanked him - and his colleagues - profusely, feeling very touched, and promised that I would keep in much better contact henceforth. At that moment, I had no great intention of becoming a police surgeon, but Mary was soon going to insist that I take them up on the offer - if only to provide me with adventure, intrigue and a healthy source of male companionship.

I have much to owe to my beloved Mary.


	3. The Subject of Love

_**Prompt for the 3rd of December from Madam'zelleGiry - "You could do worse..."**_

"Holmes, are you in love with Miss Winter?" Watson asked of me, after some moments of silent contemplation.

I had been on the brink of a doze, for the doctor had dosed me with morphine on account of the injuries that I had sustained, courtesy of the Austrian bounder whom we had just defeated.

"What ever made you decide to ask me that?" I enquired. "Rather an odd thing for even my terribly romantic biographer to come out with, do you not think?"

He snorted. "No, I do not think so. After sharing rooms with you for so long, it is not difficult to deduce you."

I gave a dismal groan. "Very well; explain your reasoning."

"Well... When you described the baron's disfigurement, you said that the woman that he had been pursuing would love him all the more. That sounded rather like the voice of experience. And you have already told me of the terrible scars that Miss Winter has been forced to bear, as a reminder of Gruner's cruel treatment of her."

"Really, Watson!" I objected. "I have made a study of human psychology."

"You said that it irked you, that you had not realised that she was wearing her hair in an unusual manner."

I snorted impatiently. "I pride myself in being observant. Besides," I added with a yawn. "I would have thought that I would have noticed, were I even remotely in love."

"I do not believe that you were in love with her, then. This has happened recently - since her act of revenge, perhaps."

"Why in God's name would you think that?"

He shrugged. "Because I have only noticed the change in you recently. When did you first speak of the manner in which she arranges her hair? Ah! When you both called on Miss Violet de Merville. Yes, your attitude towards Miss Winter changed after that."

"Utter piffling nonsense!"

"Do you think so?" he asked of me. "Well, after all, you could do worse..."

All at once, all thought of restfulness was banished. "I daresay I could do much worse! But what about the lady in question - any lady? The fair sex requires love, security, comfort..." I shook my head. "All that I can offer is disturbance and danger."

"Well, if you say so, Holmes. But you have been speaking very highly of her, of late."

"The girl has juice, that is all. Now, if you will excuse me..." I truly was quite dreadfully weary and I was in no mood for such nonsense. With an sigh, I stretched my aching body upon the settee and closed my eyes. "I should like very much to sleep."

He smirked. "Very well, old man. I shall let you alone to rest."

I had never been so grateful for peace and quiet.


	4. Nothing that Music Cannot Cure

_**4th December Prompt from I'm Nova - The Baker Street Irregulars singing carols in Baker Street.**_

I lay curled upon the settee, a picture of absolute misery. The case had been long, trying and thankless; the reaction was a black mood, coupled with a horrid Wintertime chill.

"You might feel a little better if you would only eat something," my Boswell nagged, while wrapping me from top to toe in rugs. "Try a mince pie - Mrs. Hudson has quite surpassed herself."

I shook my head and muffled a sneeze. Watson might have been right, but I was far too weary and miserable to feel the slightest pangs of hunger.

"Holmes, I never quite know what to do for you, when you are like this. Perhaps you should try to sleep."

That sounded like a better idea, but sleep was illusive, as it so often is when one is unwell. Never the less, I attempted to settle for a siesta - however short.

I heard Watson take up a book and begin to turn the pages. A hush settled over the house and I permitted my weary eyes to become heavy and close.

Just as it seemed that Morpheus might claim me, there came first a knock and then a ring at the front door. At once, a choir of - almost - harmonious voices rang out and I stood, still swathed in my rugs, to take myself off to the window (despite Watson's scolding).

There in the darkening street below stood my Irregulars. They were dressed for the cold and each one was singing his heart out.

With a sigh, my Boswell descended the stairs to give each boy a shilling, when the carols were sung. My face at the window was soon pointed out and I heard him explain that I was feeling unwell.

Having none of that, I tossed aside the Afghan rugs and, straightening my collar, descended the stair. I thanked the boys for their most thoughtful visit and invited them in for hot drinks and good food.

Sitting once more beside our warm fire, but this time feeling somewhat more cheerful, in good company, I bit into a mince pie, as Watson had urged me, and had to agree that they are rather good.

All too soon, our young visitors, now quite refreshed, said their goodbyes and took their leave. But their singing had cheered me and restored within me a feeling of peace and thankfulness. I found that I felt much less weary and even, perhaps, that the cold that I caught was not as bad as it had first seemed. I settled myself, with a smile at Watson, and decided to relate the last case to him after all.


	5. Logic and Artistry

_**5th Dec Prompt from mrspencil - Watson goes to evening classes**_

Though I enjoyed writing my little stories and keeping my journal, I did sometimes wish that I could draw or perhaps paint as well. The thought of being able to illustrate my own journal entries appealed to me until, at last, I decided that I would take an evening class.

Naturally, I did try to keep my evening classes a secret from my fellow lodger - not that I expected Holmes to mock me, or anything of that sort - I simply did not think that the fellow would understand.

Keeping secrets from Holmes is almost impossible. For some weeks, I felt certain that I had succeeded and silently congratulated myself, but my friend soon enjoyed telling me otherwise - and with his usual level of showmanship.

"Ah! I see that you have been using charcoal, this week," he announced upon my return. "It was oil pastels, last week, and chalk, the week before that."

I admitted that he was quite right, with some disappointment. "But how did you know?"

He smirked. "Last week, you left traces of a red oil pastel on both your shoe and the scraper. The week before, there was chalk dust on your suit. Tonight, you have a smudge of charcoal at your nose, where you have rubbed or scratched at it."

"Oh. How simple I must have made it for you."

He frowned and made a close study of me. "You intended to keep this little hobby of yours from me? What ever for? Do you see it as a vice - a thing to be ashamed of?"

"No! Of course not," said I, somewhat impatiently.

"What then?" he asked of me in a similar tone, with his hands spread before him. "Why did you not wish for me to know?"

I shrugged miserably. "After all that you have said in regard to my poor scribbles, I did not think that you would be much inclined to encourage me to try other creative ventures, that is all."

"You are not going to attempt to draw me, I trust?"

"I have not actually been instructed in life drawing, just yet," I confessed. "This week, it was pine cones and nuts; last week, it was a selection of foliage and berries. I believe that the week before, we were drawing a poinsettia."

Holmes sniffed. "I suppose it is at least seasonal," said he. "Of course, I could teach you composition and perspective. Portraiture is a little more complex, but I am sure that you would soon grasp the basics."

"Do you mean to tell me that you are an accomplished artist?" I asked of him incredulously.

"I have mentioned that I have art in my blood," he reminded me with a sardonic smile as he lit his pipe. "Why did you never ask? I could have saved you some money!"

Because it would be pleasant to be able to work creatively without being constantly told what I was doing wrong, I thought.

He nodded and lowered his eyes to his pipe as he pulled it from between his lips for a moment. "Am I so very beastly to you that you would prefer not to show me your works?"

I said nothing. What could I say?

"Are your pieces very good?"

"No. But I do enjoy sketching and drawing."

He snorted. "Perhaps you would benefit from a different teacher. Do you think that you could draw something that is hanging on our Christmas Tree? I promise to give nothing but constructive criticism - if you cannot benefit from something that I might say, I shall leave it unsaid."

We spent all of that evening sketching with pencils. Holmes made a very patient and insightful art teacher and I enjoyed myself very much.

I must confess that I enjoyed my following evening class all the more, for my technique was much improved by then and my teacher very surprised.

"He of course thought that it was all his doing," I told Holmes.

The fellow snorted. "What cheek! I hope that you set him straight, after he put the idea into your head that your drawing was no good."

"What could I say? That my friend is a better teacher than he is?"

"Yes," the fellow answered simply. Then, after some moments, he added: "But I would also have told him that said friend knew that you lacked only confidence and that a little encouragement was all that you required. As with your inferences, you were too timid in your sketching."

I laughed. "One thing is nothing like the other!"

"On the contrary, Doctor, there are distinct similarities - and now that I know how best to instruct you, we shall make a sound reasoner of you yet."

With that, he curled himself down into his chair with a self-satisfied smile, having selected his favourite pipe from the rack on the mantlepiece.


	6. A Long Night

_**6th Dec Prompt from silvermouse - Dangerous watch**_

"Are you all right, Watson?"

I hear him shift for what feels like the hundredth time before emitting a near-silent groan. "Yes, Holmes."

He does not sound it. "Your old wounds? I did warn you that you would have to remain perfectly quiet and still." Expecting him to be perfectly silent is rather too much to ask of him.

"I know. I apologise, Holmes, but I am cold."

"I also recall warning you that it would be cold - I believe that I told you to dress warmly and to bring rugs. Now do be quiet - our very lives may well depend upon it."

"Sorry, Holmes."

We remain in silence for what seems like a split second.

"For how much longer are we likely to have to remain here? I should like to stretch my legs."

Why did I not come alone? "Watson, would you please be quiet? If we are found here... well, we are somewhat out-numbered and this gang is dangerous. Besides, I need to be able to hear what it is that they are talking about, or else the danger is for nothing."

I hear him shift slightly yet again. "Sorry, Holmes."

"What ever is the matter?"

"I have already told you - I should like to stretch my legs."

"I am afraid that you shall have to remain uncomfortable." Oh! And only now does realisation dawn. "You wish to ease yourself?"

"If you must be blunt, yes."

"Your timing is impeccable. Can it wait?"

"Really, Holmes! I am not a child."

No, but he is cold and I know that that complicates matters. "Take some of my rugs and try not to think about it. Perhaps if you keep warm, the feeling will subside."

"Thank you. But are you not going to become rather chilled?"

"I shall be all right. There. Does that help?"

"Yes. Thank you."

We continue our vigil in silence, thank goodness. I am thankful that I have not missed overly much of the conversation that is taking place in the next room - and that we have not been discovered.

"There," I whisper when they have finally left the empty house. "Oh! It is good to be able to stretch myself!"

"Holmes, I really must..."

"Yes, yes, I know. Just wait until they are most certainly gone."

He stands carefully and crosses his legs. For just how long has he been suffering?

"Watson, this house is in quite a state of disrepair and nobody would know if you..."

"Just what are you suggesting?" he snaps. "No, Holmes. I am quite sure that that is not considered to be seemly behaviour. Besides, I am not incontinent."

I am tempted to ask him again whether he is certain that he can wait, as he is by nature much too polite to make such a requirement obvious, but I am not at all sure that causing the poor chap to doubt himself would be at all helpful - he is clearly holding on out of stubborn determination.

"What would you do, were you forced to spend a night at a patient's bedside, in such a condition?" Surely, he would have some form of plan in place! I could not imagine that he would be able to concentrate upon anything other than controlling himself, in such a condition, which could prove fatal to the patient that he would be endeavouring to save.

"Must we discuss this? I would have devices with me that could be put to use - discreetly. How I wish that I had brought my bag with me!"

Ah. "Forgive me, old fellow. I thought that you might be able to do something about your current condition."

He grumbles. "I would have before now, if it were possible. I do not enjoy being uncomfortable. But I can - I shall - wait until we are at home... Unless you would prefer to call at a public house, for a pint of beer."

I believe that that is the closest that he will get to openly asking me to give him an opportunity to tend to himself now - or, at least, as soon as can be managed - rather than forcing a long walk or cab journey back to Baker Street upon him. That must hurt his pride and I am careful not to respond in a manner that would make it worse for him.

It is with relief that we enter the nearest public house. I let my companion to his own devices while I order the drinks, taking the opportunity to listen to the chatting going on around me. I can pick out one or two voices belonging to the gang, so caution must still be exercised.

Watson returns to my side quietly, almost as if he had never vanished at all, and I indicate that he should follow my lead. I then begin to talk coarsely - in a Cockney accent - about the first thing that comes to mind - horses.

When we have finished our beer, we head for the nearest cab stand. Only when we are safely on our way back to Baker Street do I explain my antics at the bar and tell Watson of all that I overhead.

"And they plan to rob a jeweller's, on Saturday night," says Watson, to my utter astonishment.

"When did you hear that mentioned?" I demand to know. I cannot remember overhearing that and I would have thought that my companion was in rather too much discomfort to be paying much attention at all.

He smirks. "The public house' lavender cottage has rather thin walls and two of them were talking outside of it. One mentioned the upcoming 'job at the jeweller's' and the other told him to be quiet."

"Watson, you astonish me. Which jeweller's?"

"Ah. Oh," his face falls with disappointment. "I am not sure. Did you hear them mention one?"

I rack my racing brain. "I am not sure," I confess at last. "I did hear a name or two mentioned that could be one. We shall have to see what we can find out. But an excellent piece of observation work, my good Watson - bravo!"

I see his face redden slightly and decide to say no more. Perhaps the knowledge that he stumbled upon the information when he had something rather different on his mind irks or embarrasses him; Watson is a sensitive chap in his way. Never the less, I am rather proud of him.


	7. Over Indulged

_**7th of December prompt from cjnwriter - Eating too much**_

I should never have had that second slice of pie and certainly not with the generous helping of whipped cream and whisky, I tell myself miserably, as Holmes puts me to bed on our settee.

In truth, I also should not have had so much of the main course, either, and the rich port has no doubt not helped.

"What do you need?" the detective asks of me with concern. "Is there anything in your bag that might be of help?"

I merely groan in response.

"Watson? I know not what to do for you. What can be done?"

"Water. Bucket. Rest," I gasp in response. There is no miracle cure for over-indulgence - I simply have to remain still and quiet and permit my body to right itself. I could recover with rest and quiet, but there is also a strong possibility that my digestion might become upset.

Holmes immediately races away, coming back first with the bucket and then with a glass and pitcher of drinking water, which he sets down with slightly trembling hands.

"You need not stay," I assure him. "I should be able to manage."

He gazes back at me with an expression of surprise and then fondness. "You have never forsaken or neglected me, in a moment of need, Doctor - not even when I have quite probably deserved as much. No, no! You have been kindness itself to me and I could never abandon you, as much as it may grieve me to watch you suffer."

I thank him quietly and attempt to find a comfortable position with care.

"Are you all right? Would you like some water?"

"At the moment, I am not at all sure that I could possibly fit anything else inside of me."

He nods his understanding and crouches before me, like a wicket-keeper poised for action. His eyes flick this way and that for some moments, until I fear that he might make himself dizzy.

"Do you think that a visit to the washroom might be beneficial?" he then asks, somewhat awkwardly. In usual circumstances, this is not considered an appropriate question - even between good friends - and I can understand his reluctance. However, he is also quite right - easing myself, even if I do not really require it, will put less pressure upon my overly full stomach.

With a nod, I attempt to stand.

"Let me assist you," my companion offers. "I shall wait outside of the door, should you have need of me - do not lock it."

I am walked inside of the washroom and then left to my own devices, my friend shutting the door behind him.

When I return to the sofa but a few moments later, I feel a little better.

"Perhaps standing and walking about helped some of your dinner to go down," says my companion. "I hoped that it might."

I am again - very gently - laid upon the settee and made as comfortable as possible.

"Would you like some fresh air? That might help."

I - gingerly - shake my head. "Becoming too cold might not be at all beneficial, as it may cause my abdomen to contract."

"I suppose so."

"Holmes, the best thing to do is to permit me to rest. Perhaps you could play something soothing..."

He brightens considerably at the thought of having something helpful to offer. "Yes, of course."

And then my friend is standing over me and swaying in time to the gentle music that he is coaxing from the strings of his violin. Slowly, I feel a peace settle over me and then, at last, Morpheus claims me. Perhaps I shall feel much improved when I wake.


	8. A Wreath

_**8th of December Prompt from I'm Nova - Wreath**_

Having worked the longest case since the return from my continental exile of three years, I trudged wearily homeward to the comfort and haven that I have come to appreciate.

The weather was bitterly cold and had long since caused my head to pain me and my throat to become sore and dry. As I turned onto Baker Street, I could but think of the companionship that awaited me there and a nice, warming drink.

As I approached the front door, I noticed that something was hanging upon it - a wreath of evergreens and berries. I had never been fond of Christmas or its decorations - regardless of my patriotism and the Queen's fondness of the season - but in that moment that ring of twig, leaf and berry felt to me to be symbolic of all that I had missed.

So it was that I did not complain about the wreath - nor the mess of leaves and ribbons adorning the bannister, or the tree and boxes of coloured glass balls that awaited attention - but instead found myself smiling joyfully. The headache and sore throat forgotten, I gladly assisted Watson in decorating the Christmas tree without a word said against the season.

Thank Heaven I had not missed Christmas Eve! Goose for dinner, with fine company and good wine. What more could any man want?


	9. First Friendship

_**9th of December Prompt from W. Y. Traveller - Ice**_

* * *

The weather outside was freezing, with an East wind that rattled at the windows and chilled the rooms beyond. My windows - and the pane of every other window in every room in the entire college - was covered with ice patterns and the air was chill enough to enable me to see the breath in front of my face.

I lay curled upon my bed, a picture of misery, beneath all the rugs that I had been able to find. I have never cared for winter weather and I felt as if the blood might freeze within my veins, despite my warm clothing and the piles of rugs.

When a knock sounded upon my door, I merely groaned. To say that I was not in the mood for receiving visitors would be a gross understatement.

"Holmes?" the concerned face of Victor Trevor peered in at me from around the now ajar door. "Not still sulking, are you?"

This is the single fault that I have found with my old friend - his inability to understand that when I get in the dumps, I am not being sulky, but am instead terribly unhappy. If I could explain the reason, perhaps I might have been able to make him understand; as it was, I could only lie in silence, not daring to utter a single word for fear that I might be betrayed by my own voice.

Trevor approached the bed slowly and gazed down at all that could be seen of my face. "Are you unwell?"

I was tempted to tell him that indeed I was - and perhaps to then suggest that he should leave me, for fear of contagion - but I knew that I did not truly wish for him to go. In truth, I knew not precisely what it was that I wanted.

"Your eyes look unusually bright - have you a fever?" his hand carefully sought my forehead under my rugs. "No. There is no temperature, God be praised. But you do seem to be dreadfully miserable - perhaps you might find some fresh air beneficial? Besides, you might freeze if you do not rouse yourself - you must move, if only to keep your blood moving."

"I believe that I may be catching cold," said I, more in desperation than anything else, for I wanted only to be left alone.

He gazed back at me, his head to one side. "Your voice is decidedly rough and you certainly are pale - even by your standards. But surely, remaining here would do you no good - light exercise and fresh air might be of some benefit to you."

Before I was quite aware of what was happening - for I am unused to being made to do anything that I would rather not - Trevor had hauled me to my feet, collected the skates that he had given to me and was marching me downstairs and outside. I must confess that I did feel somewhat warmer, once I was moving.

The patch of ice upon which we had been skating together, almost every morning, was terribly exposed to the East wind. However, I soon found that I was enjoying myself and that I cared not how cold I felt. We skated together for what felt like an eternity, laughing as we both attempted various tricks, for we were quite alone that day.

It was not until I gave a rather sudden and violent sneeze and slipped as a consequence, falling heavily upon my left elbow, that Trevor decided that I must indeed be taking cold and that we should not remain out of doors and exposed to the wind for too long.

I was helped to my feet and rushed back to the room of my friend, wherein I was presented with a warming drink beside his fire.

"Why did you have no fire burning, when I called on you?" the fellow asked of me, when we were quite settled. "I daresay that you will catch cold, if you do not ensure that you are kept warm."

Knowing that I could not properly explain, I merely shrugged miserably before succumbing to another sneeze.

"Dear me! Bless you. Won't you take another drink?"

As I drank with my friend, I became aware of a strange feeling within me. It occurred to me that Trevor was the first person that I had met that truly seemed to care whether I lived or died - and he did not appear to see a possible illness in me as a nuisance or reason to leave me to my own devices. Never before had I known such kindness.

"Rest by the fire," he suggested as he took my empty cup from me. "I shall see that you are kept warm."

I rested and then my friend insisted on escorting me to the infirmary, to ensure that the cold that I was catching was not serious and that my left arm - which was becoming stiff - had not been damaged in my fall on the ice. I protested that my constitution has always been a strong one, but the fellow insisted that the possible injury that I had sustained was entirely his fault. So it was that I underwent an examination, only to be assured that I merely required warmth and rest; which was to be followed up with light exercise and fresh air as I improved. My arm was merely badly bruised.

"We shall skate again when you are well enough, " Trevor said as he escorted me back to my room. "I should have listened to you - you were quite right."

The fellow looked so dejected that I felt moved to say something in his defence - which was another first, as I had never before had very much time or thought for little acts of kindness, for the sake of kindness.

"The skating did me good," said I. "It was enjoyable and I had been feeling dreadfully miserable and alone. Your company - and the exercise - did me some good."

"But... rest is the best cure for a cold. We have just been told that exercise is best taken during recovery."

I found myself unable to express quite what I had meant - that it was his kindness and thoughtfulness that had benefitted me, coupled with the enjoyment - the fun - of the skating, even if it was not advisable. I merely smiled and patted his arm.

"Well... you at least seem happier," said he. "I shall call on you later and see that your fire is still lit - you really must have a care, you know."

I assured him that I would - and I meant it. The sooner that I was well, the sooner we could return to the ice!

* * *

 _ **I apologise that I have fallen behind so, but my nephews have been dreadfully unwell up until very recently and I am worn to shreds after caring for them and preparing for Christmas. I shall do my utmost to catch up.**_


	10. Newspapers

_**10th of December Prompt from Garonne - Today's newspaper.**_

"Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson! Where the deuce is this morning's newspaper?" I heard Holmes bellow from the sitting room below.

With a groan, I pulled myself from my warm bed, thrust my cooling feet into my slippers and fastened my dressing gown about me, before leaving my room to make my way to the top of the stairs.

"Holmes!" I scolded as I approached the sitting room. "Do you not know what the day is? It is bloody Boxing Day - a national holiday, for God's sake!"

Holmes was in the process of loading his pipe at the fireside, when I entered the room.

"Another one?" he turned sharply to stare at me quizzically. "But we have only just had Christmas Day! Does nothing happen in London, during holidays? There must be some news!"

"I suggest that you consult the Irregulars and stop shouting at Mrs. Hudson over matters outside of her control. For goodness sake! Do you not recall my mention of the bank holiday, last night?"

He shrugged. "I never take much notice of the things - I work when I am needed; my working days and hours are not dictated by the banks."

"Dash it all! It is the same with me, being a surgeon! But I did say that, provided that there was no reason for me to be called early from my bed, that I should like to enjoy a rare lie-in."

"You are becoming rather lazy," said he with a wag of his pipe stem. "Why would you want to lie in bed for half of the day?"

I yawned and sniffed. "To make up for more than a fortnight of deprived sleep - late nights, impossibly early mornings and the occasional night in which I did not even come home at all. I am very tired, Holmes. Unlike you, I am unable to go on like this - and I would rather not try to."

He nodded and began to scrutinise me. "You feel unwell?"

"I know that I shall soon become unwell, if I do not have a decent amount of sleep, quite soon. It should not be much to ask!"

He gave a slight nod. "Sleep then. Take the settee. Permit me to stir up the fire and find you some rugs, before I seek out the Irregulars."

If his tone was ironic, I was too weary to notice or care. I did as directed and was not disturbed again until it was almost lunch time, for which I was thankful.

When Holmes returned from speaking with his Irregulars, he refrained from expressing his complaints in regard to the lack of criminal activity within the city and surrounding countryside - for which I was doubly thankful - but instead played haunting tunes on his violin. However, I was most glad that the fellow would have his daily papers the following day, without fail.


	11. A Moment of Rest

_**11th Dec Prompt from I'm Nova - Singing.**_

When did I last find the opportunity to attend a church service? I am not of the opinion that one must attend Church regularly to be a decent Christian gentleman - though I believe in God, naturally; as a man of logic and science, I do not believe in coincidence and one cannot choose to believe in neither - however, there is a feeling of restfulness in a church that cannot be found anywhere else, to my knowledge.

"Come along, Holmes," urged Watson, as he dragged me inside. Have we never attended Church together before? Hum! Perhaps we have not. It would appear that the chap does not imagine that I would do so by choice. However, this case has been demanding my every minute and I have not been able to eat or sleep since accepting it - how many days ago was that? Three? Four? - and it is likely for that reason that the good fellow expects me to argue. But I am weary and my head aches; perhaps I do need to take a moment.

Each hymn provides a balm to the weary spirit and the frayed nerves; the singing easing my troubled mind, which has been searching feverishly for an answer these past five days. Our client is nearing despair for her accused husband and I can do nothing! Is it right that I should be comforted at a time such as this? Yet comfort I find - I cannot help it, for all the guilt that I feel as a result.

The sermon washes over me, becoming background noise, for I am not listening. Instead, I close my eyes and pray - for my poor client, God help her, her husband, God help him, and finally for me - I must not fail! Somehow, I must save this falsely accused man from the gallows.

When the final hymn is announced, I feel certain that the all seeing Providence has indeed been listening - it is a relatively new one, the priest says, which I soon discover to speak of trusting our Lord for His guidance and strength - He never grows tired or weary, it says, and those that trust in Him shall not wear out.

I must say that I feel lighter, when my Boswell and I finally leave together, and I have no doubt that the answer will be found.

It takes only a matter of hours, upon leaving that church, for me to realise just what it was that I had overlooked and to place the true culprit into the hands of the local constabulary. Perhaps we should attend services rather the more frequently.


	12. The Inquest

_**12th Dec Prompt from Aleine Skyfire - Moran and Watson have an encounter.**_

"Doctor Watson!"

The last thing that I want is to be detained. I am weary and have a stack of papers awaiting my attention, back at my practice. Besides, I do not wish to be questioned about my late friend and colleague, which is usually what such a shout heralds.

Despite my weariness, I slowly turn to face the jovial gaze of one of the witnesses - Moran, I believe his name was said to be. I force myself to smile in turn.

"A sad business," the fellow notes. "Such a shame. He was a charming boy - how could anyone do such a thing?"

I can only shake my head in response. "I have no idea."

"Forgive me, but I heard your name and had to ask..."

There it is. "Yes," I interrupt, no longer able to find the patience for good manners. "I was associated with the late Sherlock Holmes. He was my friend and my colleague."

He raises his eyebrows. "Naturally, you must be asked about him frequently - his name, after all, has become a household word. But I was going to ask whether you are the same Doctor Watson that was recently mentioned in the paper as having lost his wife."

I nod, unable to even meet his gaze for fear of my own emotions.

"I am sorry! To lose your friend must have been bad enough, without the loss of your wife, as well. How did she die?"

I straighten my back and look him resolutely in the eye. "She disturbed a thief, whom had gained entry to my our home, while I was out making a house call."

"Dear me! What a tragedy."

"Doctor Watson!" a second, familiar voice interrupts as Lestrade approaches. I smile and nod as the fellow - colonel, I believe - excuses himself and then the Yarder is beside me. I must say that I am relieved to have a friend beside me, for I was strangely uncomfortable in the presence of the colonel. Perhaps I have been working rather too hard, of late.


	13. Quite a Coincidence

_**13th Dec Prompt from Garonne - A complete coincidence**_

"How ever did you know?" I ask of my beaming dear friend. How could he know that my watch was ruined during a struggle by the waters of Canary Wharf, which lead to an impromptu swim? He was away at the time and even my housekeeper knew nothing of it, as one of my boltholes was nearer (with nobody on hand to fret or complain).

"How did I know what?" he asks, much too innocently, while his eyes shine with a suppressed mirth.

I (impatiently) demand to know just why it is that he chose a new watch (of silver, gilded and engraved with his greeting) as his present for me this year.

"Do you not like it?" he asks, somewhat saddened. "I thought that it was rather fine."

Expensive, for a man of Watson's means; he has precious few wealthy patients and no high profile cases to pay his bills. I feel that my gift is mean by comparison, but I shall refrain from saying as much (he would only insist that the thought alone counts).

"It is very fine indeed - and of course I like it! I simply fail to understand how you came to know that I have need of a new watch."

His eyebrows raise and his eyes widen, but it is only an expression of feigned surprise. "What a coincidence!" is all that he will say.

How could he possibly know?


	14. Barking

_**14th Dec Prompt from Wordwielder - Barking**_

My friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, had left me alone at Baker Street early in the evening - having partaken of a rushed dinner of cold meats and cheese. He had not said that he was likely to be back late and so I had waited for him to return.

The weather had been threatening snow earlier in the day, but then the wind picked up as the evening wore on and I realised, when I stood to draw the curtains, that it had become much too bitter to allow for snow. As I stood, shivering slightly, at the window I found myself wishing that Holmes had had the foresight to ask Mrs. Hudson for a hot dinner - even if he had wanted something that could be prepared and eaten quickly, could he not have had soup? - as the weather was clearly turning very cold. I found myself beginning to pace as I became increasingly worried.

I cannot tell why I was so concerned - the knowledge that my friend was out in bad weather has always troubled me, but not usually as it did that night. I wanted to find Holmes, if only so as to put my mind at rest, but I had no idea where he might be or what he was likely to be doing. As is his wont, he had provided me with very little information as to his intentions.

While I was wondering what I should do, a loud and urgent knocking sounded at the door and I dashed down the stairs as fast as my protesting leg would allow. There on the doorstep was a young constable.

"Please come, Doctor," he gasped. "It's Mr. Holmes."

I felt my blood freeze within my veins but somehow remained professional. With speed, I retrieved my bag and accompanied him wordlessly.

"It was me who found him," the constable told me, as he lead me in the direction of Regents Park. "If it wasn't for his dog..."

"What has happened?" I asked of him, somehow keeping my voice steady while my imagination raced ahead, finding increasingly horrible fears to trouble me with. Had he been attacked?

"I'd say he probably slipped on a patch of ice and hurt his head. His dog was laid across him, keeping him warm, and kept barking. If he hadn't been out with him, I might never have found him in time."

Then Holmes was alive. I found myself thanking God above. "Is he badly hurt?"

"I don't know. He didn't look very well - I wanted to bring him straight to Baker Street, but the dog wouldn't let me get too close."

"Do you mean to tell me that you left an injured man lying on the cold ground, in order to fetch assistance? Why did you not whistle for assistance? Why did you leave him alone?"

I did not mean to berate the chap, but I was dreadfully afraid for my friend - we might have already been too late!

"Sorry, Doctor, I know now that I should have done. I just didn't know what to do - and I knew that you live close by."

The detective was conscious when I knelt beside him, but clearly not well. He was looking about him in a dazed manner and, despite Toby's efforts, was shivering with vigour.

"Holmes," I called gently, causing him to slowly turn his head to meet my gaze. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"Must I?" said he, in a manner that would have made me suspect that he had been drinking, were it not so highly unlikely.

Holmes has said that he does nothing without reason. As a doctor, I also will only ask questions if they will achieve something. In this case, his ability to give an account of what had happened would help me to gauge the extent of his injuries and resulting trauma or shock.

"You need not go into detail," I assured him. "I simply want to hear your version of events."

He shivered and waved me away. "Later, Watson! I wish to go home - I am freezing! Help me up, would you? Come along - I am hardly going to break, should you touch me, though I do believe that I am likely to take cold. This path is like ice!"

The constable assisted me in helping the poor fellow to his feet and then I took him home, leaving the policeman to resume his duties.

The moment that we entered the house, Mrs. Hudson rushed to make some hot soup and tea while I helped Holmes out of his torn and scuffed coat and into his dressing gown, beside the hearth. There was soon a blazing fire in the grate and a pile of blankets about my companion.

"You are certain that you are not hurt?" I asked of my friend as I handed him a large brandy.

He took a sip and nodded. "I am quite sure. There is no dizziness or nausea - I know the symptoms that I should watch for. I believe that it was shock and exposure that did the most harm. Were it not for Toby..." with that he gave a shiver and turned his face away from me to sneeze.

The dog immediately rested a paw at his knee with a soft whine.

"I am all right, old boy," the detective reassured him with a nod. "Look - I am quite well, now."

All the same, I cleaned the cut at my friend's temple and ensured that no damage had been done. Finally, he gave me a brief account of the incident, which he felt was much too embarrassing to allow for detailed description. It was utter piffle, of course, but Sherlock Holmes is a dreadfully proud man.

I sent for one of the Irregulars to come and take the dog home, as I was loath to leave my friend - for all his protestations of feeling perfectly well. I understand that Toby was given a handsome reward, as he deserved.

Holmes has not been quite himself since last night, when he took his fall, though he continues to insist that he is quite all right. I can only hope that he would tell me, should he begin to feel unwell. Perhaps he is merely a little unnerved by the knowledge that he could easily have died, as the result of a trifling accident, were it not for a loyal companion's insistent barking. I hope that he shall have a care, in the future.


	15. Noises in the Night

_**15th Dec Prompt from mrspencil - Things go bump in the night**_

This is the first time that I have ever set foot aboard a ship with Watson. He is nervous and it occurs to me only now that this has to be his first time aboard such a craft since he was invalided home from Afghanistan - I dread to think what memories must be assaulting the poor fellow but know not quite how to reassure him.

I would never admit as much to my companion, but I am myself somewhat uncomfortable at sea. I am not immune to seasickness, though I only suffer when the water is particularly rough, and I have sometimes contemplated how convenient the sea could be as a scene for a murder - should a nervous villain come to recognise me, he need only catch me by surprise and bundle me overboard while I am unconscious. Perhaps I am thinking irrationally, but it all seems absurdly simple to me.

My companion and I stroll the deck together after our first dinner on board, before being sent below to our cabins by the chill in the air. Even in fairly warm climes, the temperature will plummet on a clear night.

I have booked my companion and I adjoining cabins, keeping in mind Watson's unease in strange places. Should he succumb to nightmares, I should like to be at hand to calm the doctor before he disturbs our fellow passengers - I know only too well how mortified he would be.

Having made use of the provided washstand, I pull on my nightshirt and slip gratefully between the sheets. As a rule, I do not sleep during a case - I am all excitement and activity - but I know that I can do nothing while we are travelling and so the only logical thing to do is to conserve what energy I can.

Now that I am lying still, I am able to feel the motion of the ship on the waves. Never the less, the sea is quite calm and I know that I shall be all right. I hope that my companion is also going to have a good night of restful slumber.

What was that? I sit up in bed with a shiver, for the room is dreadfully cold. Where am I? Oh. Of course. The ship. Why am I so cold? Is the captain blundering into an approaching storm? No, it cannot possibly be that - surely, the ship would be lurching dreadfully, even before the storm were to break. What is it that has disturbed my slumber, then?

Despite the chill in the air I leave my bed, pulling on my dressing gown without a pause, to go through to Watson's room - perhaps he has disturbed me by calling out, before realising where he was. I know the doctor well enough to be quite sure that he would not wish to wake me.

It is as I approach the connecting door between our cabins that a tremendous bang sounds, causing me to jump and turn my head in the direction of my door, which connects with the corridor. There is a chill draught from the direction of that door, as well.

"Holmes?"

And that is Watson. No doubt, the noise also startled him. I am at the door between us in one long stride and then I am standing in his cabin.

"Was that a shot?" the doctor asks of me as he hastily prepares to leave his bed. "What happened? Have you been attacked? Threatened?"

I hasten to assure him that the sound was not a shot, that my cabin was empty when I awoke and that the sound came from the corridor.

"Why is it so cold?" is the next question.

That is rather more difficult to answer. Why indeed is it so cold?

He shivers and pulls his rugs closer. "Do you mean to investigate?" he asks of me with a quiet sniffle.

Yes, I certainly should investigate, now that I know that my companion is all right, but Watson should remain where he is - he does not have my strong constitution and I can clearly see that his tremors are becoming persistent; he is colder than I am.

Having given the doctor his dressing gown and all but ordered him to put it on and to remain where he is, I step out into the freezing corridor and only just keep myself from making a startled leap into the air when another loud bang sounds.

"Holmes?"

I almost give a cry of alarm when the soft voice makes itself heard close to my ear, while a frozen hand rests upon my shoulder. My Boswell has clearly managed to follow behind me noiselessly enough to remain undetected. The fellow is much quieter than I expected him to be, for my ears are as sharp as my eyes and wits.

"What is it?" he whispers nervously. "What is happening?"

"Return to your bunk before you catch your death of cold," I order him, as opposed to answering his question. I have no idea, just yet, what is happening.

Watson says nothing, but he does not move either. Damn his foolish, stubborn pride!

"Watson," I hiss through my teeth without turning my head to look at him.

"I am staying," he whispers back.

Annoyed, I shrug my shoulders and take a step forward, keeping my eyes and ears alert. I know not quite what to expect and I am becoming increasingly nervous.

The corridor is only dimly lit and it takes me a moment to realise that this is because some of the gaslights have gone out. About us, there are eerie sounds - clicks, taps, groanings... and then an odd, metallic squeak, like that of the rusty hinges of a gate, followed by another loud bang. The squeaks and bangs sound as if they are coming from my right, as is the chill draught. A suspicion begins to form in my mind.

"Have a care, Holmes - it is terribly dark."

The warning of my friend alerts me. I am able to see quite well in the darkness, but I suspect from his words that he is not. Rather than attempting to send him away yet again, I take his hand and lead him wordlessly.

My companion noiselessly follows without question or protest. Is it possible that he knows my mood so well, having worked with me for less than a year, that he understands just when and why I require silence? Shall I ever know his limits?

It does not take us long to conclude the mystery. A porthole has been left open and the wind has caught it, tossing it to and fro in a manner that Watson would no doubt describe as playful.

However, it does not as easily explain why the porthole should be left open on the side of the ship at which the wind is blowing. Nor does it explain the reason behind the other noises, though I suppose that all ships make noises. I close and secure the window and turn to the doctor with a smile, about to say that that concludes one problem of the sea.

I never speak a word, for a strange noise, somewhat like a wail, sounds and we both decide - unanimously and without uttering a single sound - that we have investigated quite enough nocturnal happenings for one night. With all the cold dignity that we are able to maintain, we return to our beds. I very much doubt that either one of us shall desire to speak of the odd noises when we rise tomorrow.


	16. Fire Hazard

_**16th Dec Prompt from I'm Nova - Fire hazard. I am very sorry about the long wait, my dear; I ran out of time, energy and inspiration. I have, however, kept every prompt from last year.**_

* * *

I know not why the candles of the 22nd Century are all battery or mains powered. They might well look all right from a distance, but they are rather boring.

Of course, being a former beekeeper, I know how to make wax candles. It is far from difficult. A mere Internet search later, I am in contact with London's Suburban Beekeeping Society - two emails later and I have a parcel full of wax winging its way to my door by drone.

Watson tends not to give me the run of the ("his") kitchen, while he is functional. The bossy robot would appear to be of the opinion that I might cause a fire or else poison myself (absolute piffling poppycock!) and thus I am not to be trusted in the room alone. That presents no difficulty - I shall simply wait until he is charging.

I am about to begin my work when the doorbell rings. Perhaps this is the crate of spiced hot chocolate that I ordered, for the next occasion that the Irregulars visit.

"Just a minute!" I call as I turn off the hob.

As I leave the kitchen to approach the door, I hear voices singing. If it is those miserable robots again, I shall toss a pail of water over them!

"...We wish you a merry Christmas and a happy new year. Now bring us some figgy pudding, now bring us some figgy pudding..."

I shall give them figgy bloody pudding! Can they not learn a better song than that? Why the deuce would a robot beg for food, anyway?

"...We won't go until we get some. We won't go..."

Oh, I shall give them something - not pudding, but something.

I open the door somewhat brusquely to find that I was mistaken. The sounds which I took to belong to robots is in actual fact the sounds of a hoverchair (a modern wheelchair), in which sits young Tennyson and the voices belong to Wiggins and Deirdre.

No longer irritated by the song (despite the repetition of the thing), I stand in the doorway and quietly listen. When it reaches its conclusion, I invite them inside.

"What's in the box?" Wiggins asks, pointing at the shipment of beeswax, which I have left in the vestibule. "Christmas presents, Mr. Holmes?"

I have not given presents much thought. If I were to be honest, I still miss my dear Boswell far too much to feel inclined to celebrate, but the robot wishes to at least have a tree. He has purchased a horrible, artificial thing because he is unable to see the difference. But I can. I miss the scent of the Norway Spruce that my Watson would always purchase. I miss the oranges and cinnamon. I miss the holly. I miss real wax candles, with real flames. The 22nd Century is much too artificial!

"It is wax," I tell them. "I have purchased beeswax and... and a special type of cord."

"What for?" Tennyson's chair asks for him.

I feel my shoulders sag ever so slightly. "I just want something to remind me of my own time. My home."

Deirdre rests a hand upon my arm. "Are you sick?" she asks, gently. "You look pretty tired and miserable."

Homesick. I never realised that it could feel like this. Even during my hiatus of three years, it never felt like this. I feel as if my very soul is ill - as if I am slowly dying of some unknown ailment. Is this what it feels like to be broken hearted?

"Is there anything we can do?" Wiggins enquires, when I fail to answer.

I shrug my shoulders. What can anyone do?

"Why don't you show us what you were making?" Tennyson asks.

Because what I am doing might be illegal - why else would real candles not be available to purchase?

Deirdre takes my hand and offers me a smile. "Go on, Mr. Holmes," she begs of me.

How can I refuse? Though I still suspect that this might be a bad idea, I take them through to the kitchen.

"You can't use real candles!" gasps a horrified Deirdre, when I explain my intentions. "They're not safe!"

Wiggins is quick to agree. "They're a fire hazard."

"Pooh!" I snort in response. "Only if one is very careless - I grew up using candles! I know that one should have a care."

Tennyson rather cheekily informs me that Watson has told him of two separate occasions when I accidentally caused a fire by carelessness.

"That was with a lit match, having lit my pipe. On both occasions, I had been feverishly working a case - I was too weary and distracted to think clearly. The situation is entirely different. Now, if you wish to have no part in what I am doing, I shall understand perfectly. Besides, it is rather late."

Wiggins shrugs. "It's half term."

"What difference does that make?"

"No school!" the three of them crow excitedly.

"We can stay up really late!" cheers Wiggins.

"We can get up when we want!" chimes Tennyson's chair.

"We can do what we want!" adds Deirdre.

Hum. "In that case, why do I not show you how to make beeswax candles by hand, without melting it. Come along with me."

I give each of my Irregulars a sheet of wax and a wick. We then make our way upstairs and sit around the dining table in the sitting room.

Beeswax candles can be very easy to make. A mere matter of lying the sheet flat, placing the wick at one end and then tightly rolling the wax around it. Et violà!

I permit my Irregulars to take home a candle each of the ones that they make. Once they have gone, I light one of my own and stand it in the middle of a saucer.

Fire hazard, indeed!


End file.
